


The tune without the words

by chr0matic



Category: Gintama
Genre: M/M, Sonjuku AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28094241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chr0matic/pseuds/chr0matic
Summary: It is the Kansei era. Although the Joui War is still raging, Hagi has been spared from the flames of conflict so far. But one night, the tranquility is disrupted when a young man with a scar on his face and a little girl in his arms arrives at Shouka Sonjuku — Shouyou's long-lost first disciple. Though initially irritated by Oboro’s apparent aloofness, Takasugi feels strangely drawn to him. Just what did he run from, and what is the secret past Oboro and Shouyou share?A Sonjuku AU in which Oboro makes a different choice and everything changes.
Relationships: Oboro/Takasugi Shinsuke
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	The tune without the words

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [plipdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plipdragon) and [pearthery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearthery/pseuds/pearthery) for helping me with their insightful comments and feedback 🥰🥰🥰

He finds the young girl when the Naraku carry out a raid on an insurgent’s estate, half-buried under the corpses of her maidservants. She is trembling, her crimson eyes widened in silent terror. He picks her up and carries her away, away from the fire and the smoke and the screams. She buries her face in his shoulder and her thin arms twine around his neck.

The little girl is given the name Mukuro. Despite her young age, she shows surprising talent with the blade. It does not take long until she is initiated. Her skin is marked with the symbol of the Naraku and the light in her eyes fades a little more with each day that passes. A decision starts to take shape in his mind. For her, there might be a day when the wings of the three-legged crow will no longer cast a shadow on her soul. She will have friends, family, a home. She will shed her feather cloak and walk in the sunlight. He will see to it.

Hunters block their path, but he slays them all. He carries Mukuro on his back when she is too tired to walk anymore and watches over her sleep as dark clouds creep over the face of the moon. And then, they stand in the moonlit garden of Shōka Sonjuku. Fatigue makes him careless, and one of Shōyō’s students catches him trying to drop off Mukuro. His green eyes flash with anger as he brings down his sword in a glittering arc. A quick strike, and he is disarmed and clutching his bruised wrist, curses spilling from his mouth. The commotion draws out Shōyō and two of his other disciples.

Shōyō nearly falls to his knees when he recognises him. He notices with slight bewilderment that his hazel eyes are shimmering with tears as he gathers him in his arms. He should feel relief. His heart should burst with joy, but there is only bottomless exhaustion and an aching void in his chest.

* * *

Sunlight streamed into the room through patched sliding doors, painting the tatami with flecks of gold. Oboro was sitting across from him in silence, legs folded neatly underneath himself, hands formally placed on his thighs.

“Let me … let me take a proper look at you.” Shōyō began to reach for the young man with trembling hands, then lowered his arms, afraid that he would disappear if he touched him, fade away with the light of dawn like the blood-stained little shadow that had haunted him in his darkest nights, staring at him with silver eyes full of sorrow and resentment.

Oboro was wearing one of Shōyō’s frayed old kimonos. The garment fit him almost perfectly, Shōyō noticed with grief and wonder. He’d half-expected it to be far too big, the sleeves too long and the hem in need of adjustment. Oboro had shot up like a stalk of bamboo, stood almost as tall as Shōyō now, but hadn’t quite filled out yet, making his slender frame seem reedy, almost fragile. The pale yellow of the old kimono made his complexion look sickly and gave the deep shadows under his eyes a bluish cast.

Shōyō’s throat tightened. The bright eyes, the hesitant smile—no more. The little boy he had saved so many years ago was gone. The young man who had come back to Shōyō was a stranger. Oboro’s face grew blurry before him, and he had to blink away the moisture in his eyes.

“I thought …” His voice broke, and he swallowed. “I thought I had lost you.”

“I survived. I went back to the Naraku.” Oboro answered, his gaze fixed on the tatami.

“But … how?”

“Your blood.”

Shōyō exhaled a shaky breath. Blood seeping from a pile of rocks. A small hand sticking out from an opening between the stones, twitching, reaching out to him for help– He closed his eyes.

“My blood? I didn’t know …” he finally rasped, shaking his head. “I didn’t know … If I had known … I never would have left you behind.”

“I tried to throw them off your scent by infiltrating their ranks.” Oboro lowered his head. He rubbed his arm, his nails digging into the skin, though his face remained expressionless. “I went against your teachings.”

Shōyō clasped the young man’s hands. When Oboro had been a little boy, his hands had been rough and calloused from scrubbing floors, helping in the kitchen and doing laundry. Now, the pale skin was riddled with scars, some thin and silvery, some raised and red.

Shōyō slowly ran his thumb over the long fingers.

They were warm.

“You’re alive.” he said, choked with emotion. “You’re here. That’s … that’s all that matters to me.”

Oboro looked up slowly. The dull steel in his eyes turned into pools of liquid silver, shimmering, gleaming.

“Sensei,” he said.

His voice sounded very young.

Shōyō threw his arms around his long-lost disciple and pressed him tightly to his chest. Oboro tensed, but started to relax after a few moments. There was a rustle of fabric as he slowly embraced Shōyō in return. Shōyō remembered two thin arms wrapping around his neck, the weight of a small, warm body in his arms and soft silver curls tickling his cheek. His shoulders began to tremble, and his breath came in anguished gasps as he surrendered, carried away by the waves, awash in an ocean of grief. Oboro’s hands began to rub circles into his back.

He did not know how much time had passed, but after a long while, he emerged on the shore.

“When I thought … when I thought that you had been killed … when I failed to protect you, I … I very nearly gave up on our dream.” he confessed, his voice a mere whisper against his disciple’s shoulder. “I … almost lost myself.”

Oboro said nothing. His hands kept patting Shōyō’s back. He disentangled himself from the embrace and wiped the moisture from his eyes, concerned by his disciple’s silence. Oboro’s eyes were dry, but what little colour had been on his pale cheeks had drained from his face.

Shōyō furrowed his brows. “You look exhausted … You’re not hurt, are you? Did you run into any trouble on your escape?” He anxiously scanned his first disciple for any hidden injuries he might have failed to notice last night.

Oboro bit his lip, his silver gaze darting away. “No … I’m fine. We were intercepted by hunters a few miles away from the compound, but I … took care of them. I didn’t notice any pursuers after that.”

Shōyō let out a sigh of relief. “Good … good. I’ll be watchful, then, just in case.”

“Sensei … I … I’m so sorry.” There was a tremor in Oboro’s voice. “I’ve put you all in terrible danger by coming here. But … I had to take Mukuro away from that place before … I didn’t know where else to turn. I’m so sorry.” He bowed deeply, his forehead touching the ground.

Shōyō put his hand on his first disciple’s shoulder, coaxing him to rise from his prostrated position. “There’s nothing you need to apologise for. We’ll be on our guard for any signs of the Naraku. If the worst happens and they find us, I’ll move the school–it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Oboro shook his head. “I’ve caused you so much trouble … I-”

“No … Don’t say that. You’ve protected me and your junior disciples all this time. You did well in coming here. You did well.” Shōyō attempted a shaky smile and squeezed Oboro’s arm. The body beneath his fingers was solid. Not a mirage, not a dream—his first disciple had come back to him.

There was a dull thud as something hit the sliding doors facing the garden and both of their heads whipped towards the direction of the noise.

Shōyō rose to his feet with a frown and opened the sliding doors, followed by his first disciple. They immediately spotted the culprit when they stepped out onto the veranda—a slender bird with black wings, an ash-grey breast and a long tail, lying on the wooden floor motionlessly.

“It’s dead.” Oboro said quietly.

“No … it’s still alive. See? It’s moving.” Shōyō gently picked the little creature up, taking care not to hurt it accidentally. To his relief, the bird seemed to be merely stunned, blinking slowly and opening and closing its tiny beak in confusion.

He looked at the sliding doors over his shoulder and let out a sigh at the sight of the newly-formed hole caused by the collision.

“At least our little friend here seems alright,” he said and stroked the almost weightless small body in his hands. After a few minutes, the bird became more alert, seemingly having recovered from the shock. It flapped its black wings a few times, almost as if to ascertain itself that they were in working order. Shōyō made an upwards motion with his arms, giving it a little boost. The bird took off, but struggled to keep itself in the air and vainly fell to the ground again. It sat among the dew-laden blades of grass for a moment, its little head jerking from left to right in search of safety, then it hopped away and disappeared, swallowed by the sharp-toothed shadow of a leopard plant.

It was almost noon, and the sun had disappeared behind a layer of clouds. Shōyō rose to his feet again. “You must be tired.” he said, turning to his first disciple. “You should get some more sleep now. I’ve closed the school for a few days so you and Mukuro can rest undisturbed.”

They went back into the house, making a detour to the kitchen at Shōyō’s suggestion. “You slept through breakfast … you must be starving.” Shōyō washed his hands, then quickly fixed two trays with rice, soup and char-grilled mackerel, ignoring Oboro’s protest that he needn’t trouble himself.

“Don’t worry about the taste,” he quipped. “I’ve had a lot of practice since the last time you ate my food.”

The corners of Oboro’s mouth briefly quirked upwards, and warmth bloomed in Shōyō’s chest.

“If you want, you can have dinner together with us … my live-in students and me, that is.” he said as they were carrying the food-laden trays to the room that Oboro and Mukuro shared. “You saw them when you arrived.” He chuckled softly. “They can be quite a rowdy bunch, so you don’t have to join us if you and Mukuro don’t feel up to it.”

“I look forward to introducing myself to them properly.” Oboro replied. “And I should make amends with your student … I hope his wrist doesn’t hurt too badly.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Shōyō smiled, shaking his head. “It was a misunderstanding. Shinsuke’s pride might be hurt, but he’ll get over it soon enough.” He swept the wavy locks of hair out of Oboro’s face. The silver curls and the long scar running across his nose looked just like he remembered them. “We’ll talk more later.” he said softly. “Now … rest.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, I'd be very happy if you could give me some feedback 💕 Talk to me about Gintama or TakaObo on twitter ([@sentientomrice](https://twitter.com/sentientomrice)) if you like!


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